Sometimes
by a-writers-queue
Summary: Drabble. Sometimes Mukuro just wondered things. In a large space turned as small as a cubicle, there were times he just solemnly thought to himself. Kind of an AU, and it's a 4 year time-skip ( so Mukuro's 19 ), no pairing, and it's a Mukuro-centric one.


_**( "For some reason I ended up researching maximum security prison and solitary confinement instead of employment accommodations. )  
( Sometimes is the word that repeats throughout" )**_

 _ **( Sorry I've been tumbling away, in a matter of metaphors, and literally. This came from one of my blogs that I really liked. )**_

 _ **( Word count: 2409 words )**_

 _ **Disclaimer: Katekyo Hitman REBORN! does not belong to me, it respectfully belongs to Akira Amano.**_

* * *

Sometimes he'd sit in his room, simply gazing at the nothingness. With one of the most solemn expression, he waves his hands around the furniture to make it appear as if it disappeared completely, not there from the beginning.

Sometimes he'd remove every window or any means of lighting in the room, sometimes makes sure that the room has sound cancellers so that he cannot hear his roommate, or the sounds from outside. Just the sound of inhaling, and exhaling.

Just _inhale,_ and **exhale.**

In and out. That was all.

There was nothing more, everything around the room had vanished. There was no light, no heat, nothing at all that he could feel, see, hear, or smell.

Sometimes he'd rob every bit of his human rights out of boredom. They already said that constitutional and fundamental rights were not strong, they were incredibly fragile, and could leave with any second of its necessity.  
These rights that would constantly be argued the minute they are being taken away, he took it all away from himself, simply because it would be interesting to see how things would be.

Sometimes he imagined himself as an inmate within a dangerous place. A place that cried out louder than he ever could, bare such fangs that he would shiver in fear and want to cower away from.

A place that could finally keep his soul in check, making sure he would never dare defy their order, like the House of the Dead in Siberia, or the ancient methods of torture that took place in France to discipline the cruel criminal.

A place where even he would not want to get on the bad side of.

Sometimes he imagined eyes on the areas where he couldn't see, mysterious watchful eyes who recorded their moves.  
To be able to truly chain them down.

Sometimes he'd just lay down on the black covers, staring above, which reflected absolutely nothing, and just stay there, motionless, without going to the washroom or want a need to eat. **Just nothing**.

Like a statue, immobile, blank, glancing as if he couldn't do anything more.

Despite this, he knew there was no way he wasn't being viewed upon. There were figures outside the earth, in the crusts, within the same jurisdiction of his, where they were observing him, waiting for him to crack and do an action that would cost him a life.

To be punished for any wrong-doing. That was all they needed to do. There was no need to watch someone who was doing well, with clear slates everywhere. It was only when there was someone to blame, someone to shame, someone to claim, where they appear and deliver judgment upon the "wrong-doer"

..

Sometimes he would let himself out of the premise, only to be bothered by outside interferences. In a world where people were normal, able to carry their skins outside and mingle around, **he didn't belong.** Compared to their normality.. he had no place in society, not since the time he was strapped on a chair and at the mercy of those who continued to commit "crimes" using children as if they were born to be used by them, supposedly be "proud that these children are helping them move a step forward"

Ever since those times, and each time where his little soul travelled, knowing nothing but the dark side of the world.. he knew he stopped belonging.

 _He was a condemned creature_. A monster that didn't have a place in the shelter with hands spread, one full of fruit and smiles of the kind.

It didn't matter to him.

 **It made sense, in fact**. To the mind of the child whose psyche had rotted so long ago, not knowing the difference between being killed or killing. To the defiled mind who said "it was either me first, or them first", overall showing dissonance towards emotional tendencies.

Rather, he couldn't relate to them. The threads that he once tried taking into his hand and tie around his fingers snapped before it even touched him.

It was a long time ago he knew that he was a monster to be restrained. And that was exactly what he was doing, being a monster who waited for punishment, provoking the higher ups by doing actions that lead him away from the sweet tranquility that could save him.

* * *

Sometimes he felt relief when he was completely disconnected from the threads of reality. Playing with himself by creating a sense of isolation, away from any carcass who was around, roaming in a world that cried ever so often.

When children were born, they always cried, cracking into sobs, showing outward weakness because of their fragility and lack of knowledge.

He didn't remember if there ever was a kind of person who took him by the hand and raise him into a well-behaved man before he was taken away from the organization of people who told him life is nothing but refining their knowledge. The ones who worked trial and error on children who didn't have a second idea on what their work was, what did it mean to agree or disagree, or have a chance to be able to walk around without the thought of having a gun pointed at their heads and shot without a second thought.

Soon as he was born, it was another game of cat and mouse, with who catching who.  
The first time he was caught, he didn't know any better than the child who was burned because of the lack of compatibility with the power that was being inserted within his small veins.

It was opposing the typical reaction to being isolated. The fear that instills within them, that dissociation and need to breakthrough the power of silence, driving a normal person on the edge and scream out their name like a fool at the top of their lungs, only to hear their own echo.

Through this fear, they always try ending themselves.

To him, it was more relieving to be away from contact, from light, and from anything that could bring a shade that illuminates the darkness, the deep black that resembled the thin hair that flowed from his head.

It was more interesting to stay within the absolute darkness, as if he was in a box that was big enough to hold him in. A box that never moved, it never breathed, and it didn't make a sound, not a creak, nothing. It just stood there, containing the inmate within, making sure he doesn't leave.

It was the perfect place for him to be in. Just that box, unmoving, like a dead corpse that has long rotted and placed within a casket, waiting to be buried. Rather, this was his burial, like the ones a Pharaoh would have, the Sphinx, the Pyramids..

Maybe he was already buried underground. Sometimes he waited for someone to be slinging a slip of the door to use their eyes and watch him simply decay in there.

But in the setting he placed, there was no way, wasn't there?

* * *

Sometimes he laid there, wearing clothes whose colour did not help in looking any different that the colour of the walls. Perhaps it was only his skin and his eyes that showed something different. Snow hued, azure like the evening sky, and crimson like blood.

Sometimes he would scratch at his neck, leaning on the wall that kept him away from everything else. Walls that seemed as though they were impenetrable, locked, sealed.  
Sometimes his dark nails made that area into a light shade of red because of a side-effect of scratching. Somtimes he'd press upon the said area, remembering the fragility of life.

..

The minute the mechanism that connects the human mind, the one who processes thought and pushes orders to the body even without saying it in the language that living beings comprehend when conversing.. the minute that connection is lost, it was over.

Like unplugging a console to the wall that provided electricity in order for it to work and process the actions that the outsider wanted it to do.

The thought of it made him _laugh_.

In a life that is made as though it is an evaluation test that is so hard to pass, it was general knowledge that every living being **dies**. Even if they are under a longer life than others, it all comes to an end, and there will be a time where the beings above, on the Thrones of Heaven, will put their opinion on the matter.

Worst is that Their opinion are worth more than anything in the world, the galaxy, and all creations that came with it.

 _It was so damn interesting_.

Though he was never interested in playing against God, nor become a figure any close to it, it must surely be something to carry so much power in your hands that may never stray or become a curse, or something that is regrettable.

The thing that disconnects a God from any living being regardless of omnipotence or limited life. A God does not feel succumb into basic human needs, a God does not falling under the hands of sorrow, They do not cry, They certainly feel, but They transcended it, being able to look behind it, instead of falling back and making decisions that were unwise.

That was the part that clung to him.

See as now, using his powers to veil the surroundings of his room, turning everything into a state of sealed space, a four walled room of nothingness, even he was beginning to feel tired. He had a need to remove all of the work he had done because it was exhausting him.

It had him wonder sometimes, does a God ever tire the way he was?

* * *

Sometimes he shivered in excitement when there were those who'd say they're _"going to find a place for you, and just your mind your manners when you go"_ , in fact, he was eager to have them do it.

Would that be the only place in society where he belonged, despite saying earlier that such a place didn't exist?

Through the glass space in their house, he glanced at the river that flowed richly, never finding a limit, unlike the sun who was wavering, getting pushed aside by clouds, or having a need to set, which was actually just the Earth slowly turning its face away from the sun, tired of having it being tanned on one side, and shifting to the spot where it still didn't burn yet.

That itself was a strange concept to Mukuro.

When mankind was created, what was the creator thinking? Was it something beyond their scope of understanding? Were they, the people overestimating Their actions?

What about the concepts that were then nailed down by authors? Creating their own worlds, and how they thought what the future brought. What made them be able to predict such happening, and their imagination to create something.

What did the Creator think of that? Making their hypothesis that possibly had a connection to Their thoughts, or not even.

..Well, that was not something that was really thought of.

Perhaps boredom had its way of making the victim think in a rather strange manner, questioning things that may not have an answer, not for the searcher, and not for the ignorant.

Sometimes it was just a folly thought to him. In a life where nothing seems to change, where there's nothing to lose, and then nothing to gain.. what was it being sought?

What position did a condemned person have in a world like this. What was their role. Moreover, what were the mechanism that produced such a foul sense of boredom, and the feelings that would then entice it.

Sometimes he waited for the moment someone would strike him down, even if that was not beneficial to him. To be held at gunpoint was exciting, almost encouraging to see a beautiful silken hand pulling the trigger thinking he or she is doing a favour and "saving people", when they are becoming the same as the condemned one.

Becoming a monster.

Defying that higher up that they were supposedly obeying. A beautiful sight..~

* * *

Sometimes it was fine to be isolated within the deep masses and chain oneself within the confines of the human mind. It was similar to a place with a multitude of doors that are either swung closed, or waiting to be opened.

Sometimes.. it was better than being bored by the reoccurences of outside. Everything ran rampant with the same pattern, the same theme, and the same motivation. People chased after love, found mates, and then lived peaceful lives with producing children that could take moments to live within the world just as they did.

 _Who needed that.._

Sometimes he would just open the window and let himself fall halfway through, but not falling simply because of monkey acrobatics of using his feet to hold on to the support to keep from falling to the ground and possibly smashing his head.

That would be funny. Though not something he's really looking into.

He wasn't suicidal, but instead, took life and death as something that "happens", if he dies, so be it, and if he lives, _so be it_.

If he dug his grave, so be it.

But he didn't think of believing in the whole "you need to live with love", he got by just fine being with himself, and a few friends that he helped, in turn helped him back.

That didn't mean that they were not important, it just meant that he was not in need of connecting with them. These people can stay as comrades, friends, but not lovers.

Sometimes he wondered why his thoughts were always such outsiders, outcasted compared to the others who resided in the same place as he. What made them better off than him?  
That had a pretty easy answer that he knew like the back of his hand, but he knew no matter how much he could try achieving, it would never match up to theirs. The way fate plays around was cruel, after all.

The cycle repeated.

* * *

Sometimes he just wondered.

Sometimes he didn't even think, he just walked without looking back.

Sometimes it was just a small question, then a conjecture from the said inquiry, and then sometimes.. it didn't really matter.

It was predetermined. Everything was, wasn't it? Interesting it all was.


End file.
